


Two of Your Earth Minutes

by the_rat_wins



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Alien Character(s), Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Ian, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Domestic Fluff, Embarrassment, First Time, Hand Jobs, Ian's in human form, In case you were worried about that, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mind Sex, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4278936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rat_wins/pseuds/the_rat_wins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey figures he has two options: check them both into the hospital, since they're suffering from some sort of shared delusion, or believe the guy when he says he's an alien.</p><p>The thing is—Mickey believes him.</p><p>(Inspired by the immortal line "I like fucking carrot-tops. Like, with the freckles and the pale skin? Fucking . . . alien-looking?")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“What is this?” Ian says, standing in the kitchen doorway. Mickey, who until a second ago was enjoying a nap on the couch, groans and opens an eye.

Ian is holding up the toaster, dangling it by the cord.

“It’s . . . uh—” Mickey starts. He’s not awake enough for this shit right now. “It’s like . . . we put bread in it, slices of bread, and then they get”—he can’t say _toasted_ , can he? shit—“kinda burned? And then we put butter on it. Uh, the cow stuff. Not the body stuff.”

Ian looks at him like he thinks Mickey’s lying or making fun of him or something. “I thought you said the point of cooking things was to _not_ burn them,” he says suspiciously. He squints at the toaster. “Like when we made the fish sticks.”

“Well, yeah, but it’s different,” Mickey says.

“How?” Ian presses, still confused. Mickey rolls his eyes.

“It just is, man, I don’t know what to tell you.” Mickey sighs, and Ian frowns, his lips tightening with frustration. He stands there for another second, then turns and goes back into the kitchen.

“Shit,” Mickey mutters. “Ian,” he yells. “I’m s—Ian, it’s not a big deal, OK?” Silence. “Did you—did you want to try it? Is that why you asked?”

More silence. Mickey rubs his forehead.

“D’you want me to come in there?” he tries again.

“No,” Ian says after a second. His voice is croaky.

“Shit,” Mickey says, and with another groan, pushes himself up and walks to the kitchen. Ian is sitting at the table, with the toaster in his lap. He’s not actually crying, but he looks close.

“Ian, it’s fine,” Mickey says, as gently as he can. “It’s just a toaster, OK.”

“I can’t do this,” Ian whispers, and the tears are welling up now. He dashes them away angrily. “I hate this. So much _._ ”

“I know,” Mickey says. He crouches down next to Ian’s chair, and tugs the toaster out of his grasp, then stands up and plugs it in.

“Here,” he says, going to the cabinet for the bread. “I’ll show you, OK? It’ll make sense when you see it, I promise.”

“I should be able to figure it out. On my own,” Ian says.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Mickey says, digging around for a clean knife for the butter. “I had to learn this stuff too, you know. No one’s born knowing what toast is, not even on this planet.”

 

There’s probably no one less well-suited to trying to explain Earth to an alien life-form than Mickey Milkovich. For one thing, there’s a whole fucking shitload of stuff that he doesn’t understand himself. Even normal person stuff, like high-school math or how many countries there are, Mickey’s no good for.

He’s also not real patient. Him and Mandy were the youngest, and she never really looked up to him anyway, so it’s not like he grew up teaching kids new shit about the world.

Seriously, as far as Earth tour guides go, Mickey is right at the bottom of the barrel.

But he was the one who found Ian huddled naked outside an abandoned building last January, shivering and half blue, and dragged his stupid frostbitten ass back to his apartment around the corner.

As soon as Ian’s teeth had stopped chattering, he’d started ranting to Mickey about his home planet and how he needed to get back, and where was the nearest spaceport, and what kind of planet was this, anyway, that people could die just from being outside?

Mickey was about two seconds away from calling the cops to come pick him up when Ian’s whole body _rippled_ —like he was made out of water or something—and shifted for a few seconds into something so blindingly bright, Mickey had dropped to the floor and shielded his eyes.

“Are you a fucking angel or something?” he’d said in shock, when Ian had reappeared, shivering and shaking even worse than before.

“NO!” Ian had screamed. “I’M _LOST_.” And he’d burst into tears—an almost daily occurrence for the next few weeks.

At that point, Mickey had figured he had two options: check them both into the hospital, since they were suffering from some sort of shared delusion, or believe the guy.

It was hard to swallow at first, but the thing is—Mickey believes him.

 

The toast pops, and Mickey drops each piece on a plate, then spreads them with butter. Ian watches avidly, laughing a little as the butter softens and starts to run. There are still a few tears drying on his cheeks, but the excitement of learning something new seems to have outweighed his frustration and anger, at least for now.

Mickey pushes Ian’s toast toward him, then starts munching on his own. Ian looks at the way he’s eating it, then cautiously picks it up and takes a bite. “Oh,” he says, and his eyes get big. “That’s—wow. Mmm. Awesome.” He crunches most of the piece down in three huge bites. “Why do you ever eat this stuff raw?”

“What, bread?” Mickey says. Ian nods, still chewing.

“That’s—a good question, actually,” Mickey says after a second. “I, uh—I never thought about it like that.”

Ian shakes his head. “You’re crazy,” he says, spraying a few crumbs.

“Yeah, OK, ET,” Mickey says.

“It’s E- _an_. Not E-tee,” Ian says. “Aren’t you supposed to be the human? And you can’t even get my name right?”

“It’s—” Mickey starts, then suddenly feels kind of bad. Partially for making a joke he knew Ian wouldn’t get, and partially because it actually seems kind of mean, even though it’s accurate. Being mean to Ian is a lot like kicking a puppy, since he doesn’t tend to really understand what’s happening to him, or why. “Yeah, you’re right, man. My bad.”

Ian shakes his head disapprovingly. “Also, according to the clock on the little heater thing, I think you’re late for work.”

“Shit!” Mickey jumps up. He could probably have used a shower, but it’s too late for that now. “You want to come with?”

“No,” Ian says vaguely, eyes fixed on the toaster. “I have—things to do tonight.”

Mickey thinks that sounds like a disaster waiting to happen, but he doesn’t have time to argue. “OK. Just—don’t do anything stupid, OK? Be safe? Don’t burn the place down?”

Ian makes a face. “Yes, _parent_ ,” he says.

“That’s not—” Mickey says, then gives it up. “OK, see you when I get back. Have more toast or something, if you get hungry, just, uh. Don’t leave it in too long.” Ian waves him off, and goes back to staring.

_Yeah, that’s not good._

 

Mickey works as a bouncer at a club a few blocks away. They hadn’t wanted to hire him at first—the height thing, Mickey’s used to it—but his precision skills at taking people down proved to be a solid resume. Also, Mickey does most of his enforcement through power of intimidation. The easiest fights to win are the ones that never get started.

Tonight he’s off his game, though, worrying about what Ian’s getting up to at home. He never _means_ to break things, but sometimes—

“Hey, Milkovich, where’s your redheaded shadow?” Clem is one of the less obnoxious bartenders at this place, but she’s developed some kind of fixation on Ian (not that it’s hard to understand—Ian’s human form is pretty fucking hot), and she gives Mickey crap about him any time he’s not there.

“Had plans tonight,” Mickey says, and tries to go back to scanning the dance floor for signs of trouble. But Clem’s not going to let it drop.

“Oh, so he _is_ taken, huh?”

Mickey shrugs. He’s been fielding that question on Ian’s behalf, for a pretty embarrassing reason. He can’t ever seem to find the right time—or words or whatever—to explain . . . that stuff to Ian.

Shit, this is exactly why Mickey would be a terrible parent. The idea of having to have a _sex talk_ with Ian is so awful, Mickey clams up any time they even get close to talking about anything that even remotely touches on it.

“Well, bring him along next time, OK?” Clem says with a smile. “God knows we need something nice to look at around here, right?” Mickey grits his teeth at the fact the chick is referring to Ian as a thing, then gives her a noncommittal head jerk, and turns to start another circuit around the club.

Now he’s almost hoping that someone tries to start something, just so he can use up some of this fucking nervous energy.

Ian’s probably taking the toaster apart to see how it works. He’s fascinated with anything that can transmit heat or cold. When he discovered the freezer, Mickey had to stop him from sticking his head in there every time they went to the kitchen. It never seemed to get old.

“Where do you keep cold stuff that you eat on your planet, if you don’t have freezers?” Mickey had asked, amused by how excited Ian was.

Ian just shook his head. “It’s not the same,” he said. “When we—well, it’s not eating, exactly, but when . . .” He’d trailed off, confused. “Sorry, I don’t think I can describe it with your words.”

Mickey had shrugged. “Whatever. I’ll grab you some ice cream tomorrow, but remind me to warn you about brain freeze.”

“Your _brain_ can _freeze_?” Ian had said, aghast. “From eating something?”

Mickey smiles to himself a little, remembering, then quickly wipes the expression off his face. Smiling bouncers aren’t exactly intimidating, and he needs his game-face on, considering how distracted he is right now.

 

The rest of the night crawls by, and everyone is disappointingly well behaved. All he gets are a few rowdy freshmen with fakes, and they don’t even put up enough of a fight to make it worth it.

By the time he gets home at 3 a.m., he’s tired and cranky, even more so than usual, and not in the mood for any alien shit tonight. Luckily, Ian’s peacefully asleep on the couch. Nothing seems to be any more broken or exploded than it was when he left. Mickey heaves a sigh of relief, and heads for the bathroom, stripping off his sweaty T-shirt as he goes.

“Hey,” Ian says sleepily behind him.

“Sorry,” Mickey says. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s OK.” Ian is watching him through half-lidded eyes. “Anything fun happen at work?”

“Nah, it was slow. Thursday or whatever. Go back to sleep, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Ian makes a sleepy noise, and then turns over and curls up, as much as he can on the couch. Mickey tries to suppress a weird twinge of disappointment. What does he have to be disappointed about? He shakes his head ruefully, and goes to take a shower.

Mickey groans as the hot water hits him, washing away the sweat and beer stink from the club. After a few minutes, he starts to get hard, slides a hand down to wrap around himself. He jerks off in the shower a lot these days. It’s safer than doing it in bed, when Ian’s right outside and can probably hear whatever.

He braces his other hand on the tiles, and tilts his head back a little. He thinks about some hot guy dancing at the club tonight, grinding up against his partner from behind, both of them looking turned on, blissed out.

It’s been—a really long time since Mickey got laid. It had been a while before Ian got here, and definitely no one since.

He can’t just bring someone home, not with Ian sleeping on the couch. And he can’t ditch Ian to go to someone else’s place either, not without explaining.

But he can’t explain. Ian would probably think he was crazy or a perv or something.

Or he’d ask a bunch of questions, and Mickey wouldn’t know what to say. Ian’s face would be confused at first, but then he’d be fascinated, his eyes wide, mouth dropping open a little . . .

Mickey stops. Takes his hand off himself, shakes his head to clear it. Thinks about the guy at the club again. Tight T-shirt, showing off his arms. Tight jeans, showing off his bulge . . .

(For some reason, the body Ian’s chosen has—)

Shit. No. God, he _is_ a fucking perv. He can’t think about Ian that way. Not when the guy doesn’t understand, and probably wouldn’t even be gay if he did. Ian’s his responsibility, for fuck’s sake. Save a man’s life and all that shit.

Once, a few weeks after he first found Ian, Mickey had asked if he should tell anyone. The government or some scientists or whatever. Someone who could help Ian get home.

Ian had totally panicked. First, there had been tears (though that was nothing special, especially not then). Then he had started begging. Apologizing. Pleading with Mickey not to turn him in.

“They’ll take me apart,” Ian had said, his voice trembling. “You think they care if I’m alive for that?”

It had taken Mickey hours to convince him that he wasn’t going to do it.

Mickey sighs and looks down. Looks like Ian doesn’t even have to be awake to cockblock him. Mickey shakes his head, laughing a little. It’s probably for the best. He’s fucking exhausted anyway.

He soaps up, rinses off, and finally climbs into bed. And if the image of Ian’s face, glowing with excitement over a fucking piece of toast, follows him down into sleep, well, that’s not something he can do anything about.

 

“Hey,” he hears Ian say softly. Then louder. “Hey!”

Mickey groans and opens his eyes. Ian’s crouched next to the bed, his face about an inch away. It’s a lot, first thing in the morning.

“Hey,” Mickey croaks. He’s lying on his stomach, so at least Ian can’t see anything that would lead to questions.

“I made you toast,” Ian says. “And that fruit thing with the sugar on top.” He nudges the plate on the bed closer to Mickey. There’s a piece of partially blackened toast and a strawberry Pop-Tart. At least, it was probably strawberry originally. Now it’s just . . . brown. “Those go in the toaster too, right? It said so on the box.”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks, man,” Mickey says. “That’s awesome. Just give me a couple of minutes, I’ll make some coffee, OK?”

“OK!” Ian agrees brightly. He stands up, and the sun coming in through the window lights him up like some kind of fucking movie star. Mickey squints, feeling small and gross and grubby.

“Can we go to the bookstore and listen to music today?” Ian asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Mickey says, stifling a yawn. “My shift doesn’t start till eight. We’ll go to the grocery store, too.”

“Good, we’re out of bread,” Ian says on his way out the door. Mickey rolls his eyes. They definitely had at least half a loaf yesterday. He doesn’t even want to know how many slices Ian burned up in the toaster before he got it right.

Well. Mostly right.

Mickey looks down at the piece of toast, then takes a bite from the slightly less burned side. It’s not too bad.

 

Looking at Ian walking down the street in jeans and a T-shirt, no one would ever guess he is . . . whatever he is.

That’s more than Mickey could have said for the first few weeks Ian was living with him, so, progress or whatever.

(Part of the problem was that anything Ian saw on TV or in a movie, he thought was fair game. It took Mickey three days to convince him he couldn’t walk around with his shirt unbuttoned all the time just because the hero in some action movie they’d been watching did.)

(Not that plenty of people wouldn’t have thanked him for letting Ian go everywhere with his shirt open.)

Ian’s whistling something, clearly excited to be going to the bookstore. He can read—Mickey doesn’t know how he picked it up so fast—but he’s much more interested in standing in the music section with the huge tacky headphones on and just zoning out to whatever kind of music he can get his hands on.

Mickey would have guessed that he would be into classical or jazz or some other fancy shit, but actually Ian’s favorites are all dance music and electronica with huge, throbbing beats. Nothing slow or with too many lyrics. And for some reason, he thinks metal is cute.

“Are you sure you mean _cute_?” Mickey had asked, the first time he found Ian listening to a Metallica album. Ian had just nodded, with a sappy look on his face.

Mickey’s been saving up some money to get Ian a phone that can play music and some headphones. Last year, he would have just stolen shit like that if he wanted it. But he has to play it safe these days, at least till Ian can handle himself better, because if Mickey gets arrested, Ian won’t have anywhere to go.

Once they’re inside the bookstore, Ian heads straight for the music, and Mickey wanders over to the science-fiction section, looking for a cheap paperback. Since their laptop is busted and he can’t get them a new one, he’s been doing a lot of reading, remembering shit he thought was cool when he was a kid, and finding new stuff, too.

And yeah, maybe he kind of likes reading about other people dealing with aliens, now that he’s basically doing it on a full-time basis. Whatever.

 

“Why do you like listening to that shit so much?” he asks Ian while they’re standing in line, waiting to pay $3.99 for his stupid paperback.

Ian shrugs, still looking dreamy from the music. “It’s like . . . swimming in sound,” he says. “Except it’s not just sound. It has . . . emotion. Meaning.”

“You guys don’t have anything like that?”

Ian looks thoughtful. “Sound doesn’t work the same for us, and we don’t have the same kind of—” He breaks off, looking kind of flustered. “Well, there’s stuff that’s similar, but it’s—”

“All right, all right, don’t hurt yourself,” Mickey says, amused. Ian looks relieved.

“Anyway,” he says after a second. “It’s not as cool as that.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Mickey shakes his head, handing a five to the cashier, then jamming the book and his change into his back pocket. “Grocery store now?”

“Yep,” Ian says. They walk outside, and head down the block. “What do we need, besides bread and Pop-Tarts?”

“Oh man,” Mickey mutters. “The Pop-Tarts too? That shit ain’t cheap, Ian.”

“Sorry,” Ian says, chastened. “We can skip them this time, if you want.”

“Hell no, we’re not skipping them,” Mickey says. “Just . . . keep a better eye on ’em next time?”

Ian salutes. “Sir, yes sir! Copy that.”

“Never should have let you watch that fucking TCM marathon,” Mickey says, trying to think what else they need. They should probably just start keeping a grocery list, even though it makes him feel about forty-five.

“Eggs,” he finally says. “And salsa or hot sauce or something. Some kind of frozen veggie so you don’t succumb to malnutrition.”

“Mm, unfertilized chicken embryos,” Ian says unenthusiastically.

“Good protein,” says Mickey. “You’ll eat ’em and you’ll like ’em.”

Ian rolls his eyes, and Mickey makes a face, grabbing a basket from the stack at the front of the store.

Ian takes off as soon as they’re inside, like a hunting dog. “Bananas!” Mickey yells after him. “Peanut butter!” Ian raises his hand, flipping him off without looking back.

“Asshole,” Mickey mutters. But he can’t quite wipe the smile off his face.

 

Ian leans back on the couch and burps.

“Unfertilized chicken embryos not so bad, after all, huh?” Mickey says, shoveling the last bite into his mouth.

Ian shrugs. “Helps that you cover ’em in cheese,” he says.

“Oh, so processed cow products are cool, it’s just the chickens you have something against?”

“It’s a whole different thing,” Ian says, leaning forward and looking more invested than Mickey was expecting. “Like, the milk is coming out anyway, right? And that’s it. That’s the end. With the eggs—”

Mickey gestures, cutting him off. “All right, all right. Everyone’s a food critic, huh?”

“Are they?” Ian says, interested.

“No.”

“Oh.” He looks like he wants to ask, then gives up. “Is that show with the sparkly people on tonight?”

“ _Dancing with the Stars_?” Mickey says doubtfully. “Uh, I dunno. Don’t think so.” And he’s not checking, either.

“Oh.” Ian looks disappointed. Which, too bad. “Wanna watch a movie or something?”

“Sure,” Mickey says, trying not to glance longingly at his new book. But Ian’s not fooled.

“It’s cool,” he says easily. “You can read.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll get the dishes, if you want.”

“‘If you want,’ my ass. I cook, you get the dishes. That’s the deal.”

Ian makes a face. “I would cook. If you’d let me.”

Mickey makes a face right back. “Let’s wait till I have some more expendable income to blow on groceries, OK? We’re kind of tight this month.”

“Oh,” Ian says quietly.

Shit. “No, not because—” Mickey starts. But it kind of is.

“Look, it’s no big deal,” he says instead. “I’m just gonna pick up a few extra shifts. And it’s not like the rent was always on time before you got here or anything. OK?”

“I don’t—” Ian says, then swallows, looking nervous. “I don’t want to make things harder for you.”

“Hey,” Mickey says, and leans forward, gripping Ian’s shoulder. “You’re fine, man. Everything’s fine. I like—” He stops, takes a breath. “I like having you here, OK? I’m . . . glad you’re here.” It feels gay as hell to say it out loud like that, but if that’s what Ian needs to hear, then he doesn’t have a problem saying it.

Ian looks up at him, eyes wide. “I like you too,” he says.

“Uh, that wasn’t exactly what I—” Mickey starts, then stops as Ian reaches out and gently takes his hand.

Oh. OK. In about two seconds, they’ve gone off the gay end and into the great gay beyond.

“Mickey?” Ian says.

“Yeah?” Mickey says, mouth dry, heart pounding.

“Can I . . . look at you?” Ian looks up at his face shyly, then drops his gaze down to where their hands are connected.

“What?” Mickey says. Maybe it’s because his brain is in full-on panic mode, but Ian’s not making any sense.

“Would it be OK if I . . . looked at you? Just for a while?”

“I mean, you look at me all the time,” Mickey says. “You’re looking at me right now.”

“No,” Ian says, frustration creeping into his tone. “Like—” He reaches out with his other hand and grabs Mickey’s chin, tilting his head up so they’re staring at each other, eyes locked. Ian’s hand feels burning-hot on his face. His fingers are close to Mickey’s mouth.

“Uh,” Mickey says again, his eyebrows creeping up.

“Shh,” Ian says softly. “Just . . .”

His eyes are intense. Mickey’s never really thought about what color they are, but maybe that’s because they’re not just one. They’re a bunch of different ones, all at the same time.

They sit like that for a second, with Mickey frozen and staring into Ian’s eyes. He breathes in and out, feeling awkward. Ian just sits calmly, one hand holding Mickey’s, the other still cupping his face.

“Um . . .” Mickey says after another second, and shifts a little. He drops his eyes, looks at Ian’s shirt, his arm, anything but his face. Or their hands. Mickey’s hand is sweaty in Ian’s, and he just wants to drop it and get up and leave. Jerk his face away from Ian’s touch, and go sit in his room. Alone.

Except . . .

Except he doesn’t want that.

“Shh,” Ian soothes him again, and moves his thumb against Mickey’s face softly. Mickey doesn’t know what to do, except stay still and hope that . . .

That he doesn’t stop.

Mickey takes a deep breath, and then another. Slowly, his heart thumping painfully, he drags his eyes up to meet Ian’s again.

A weird feeling washes through his whole body, like jumping into cool water on a hot day. He blinks and rocks forward a little, but Ian steadies him.

“Whoa,” Mickey says softly, and Ian smiles at him.

“C’mon,” he says, and Mickey looks up at him again, stares into his eyes.

The feeling is different this time, a bright heat in his chest that radiates out, until it spreads through all his limbs, down to his fingertips and toes. It’s everywhere, pounding in his blood, pooling in his stomach.

“What . . .” he says to Ian, a little dazed. “What are you doing?”

“Do you like it?” Ian says. Their eyes are still locked, and the heat is coming and going in waves: washing through him and then fading away, then coming back, even stronger.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He feels . . . blissed out. Like the best high ever, but with nothing. Just his mind and his body.

“Good,” Ian says, sounding breathless. “I want you to feel good. I feel good, too.” He squeezes Mickey’s hand, then takes it and places it on the front of his jeans, where his dick is hard against the denim.

“Fuck!” Mickey pulls his hand away and jumps back, hitting the arm of the couch. The heat is gone, like a bucket of cold water was dumped over his head. “Ian! Don’t!”

“What?” Ian says, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

Mickey’s breathing hard, trying to swallow his panic. This is exactly what he was trying to avoid, all along. Fuck. _Fuck._

“That—” he falters. “It’s not . . . right, OK? It’s not something we should do.”

“Why not? Isn’t that what you do with people you like?” Ian looks at him earnestly, starts to reach out his hand to cup Mickey’s face again, but Mickey leans away, and Ian drops his hand, hurt.

“There’s . . . different kinds of _like_ , Ian,” he says slowly. “And that’s not for . . . what you and I are.”

“What is it for, then?” Ian asks. Mickey rubs his forehead with one hand. Shit.

“It’s, uh. It’s for when you . . . want someone. Want to be with them.” He swallows, painfully. “Uh, physically.”

“Yes!” Ian says. “That’s what I want. You. To be with me.”

Mickey winces. “No, you don’t. Not like that.”

“I do!” Ian insists, but Mickey shakes his head.

“I’m not explaining this right . . . I just . . . I don’t know how else to say it.”

“You already said it,” Ian says, like it’s all just that simple somehow. “I want you. Like the way I showed you. But your way, instead.”

“What?” Mickey says. Now he’s totally lost. And fucking embarrassed.

Ian reaches out, so slowly that Mickey would feel stupid jerking away. He lets Ian touch his face gently, with just his fingertips.

“I want you,” Ian whispers, and the heat is back, throbbing through Mickey so hard, he almost doubles over. “Like that. But with your body. And mine.”

Mickey can’t say anything, can’t even form the words to try and fight it. He reaches up and grips Ian’s wrist, then drags his eyes up to meet Ian’s stare.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispers. The feeling is even more intense when they’re looking at each other. Too much, almost. His hips jerk forward a little, uncontrollably, and he groans.

“See?” Ian says.

“Y-yeah,” Mickey stutters out.

“Good,” Ian says, and he smiles, and fuck, it’s beautiful. “Then . . . will you show me?” He’s the one who drops his eyes this time, looking tentative.

“I—” Mickey says hoarsely. He stops, clears his throat. “Yeah, OK.”

“OK,” Ian echoes. For a second they just sit there stupidly, trembling, breathing together.

Then Mickey lets go of Ian’s wrist and hesitantly reaches down to touch his waist.

“Is that . . . OK?” he asks, his mouth dry.

Ian nods. His eyes are huge and hopeful and excited. It’s fucking terrifying.

On the other hand, even if Mickey is awful and fucks things up and is the worst imaginable at everything, how will Ian know, with nothing to compare it to? He’s Ian’s first . . . everything.

Ian’s not going to judge him. No matter what he does or doesn’t do. No matter what he wants.

Mickey turns and pulls his legs up so he’s kneeling on the couch. Then he kind of shuffles forward and swings one leg over Ian’s, so he’s basically straddling him. Their faces are close together.

“Hey,” he whispers, kind of nonsensically.

“Hey,” Ian says back, and smiles.

Mickey leans forward and steadies himself by grabbing Ian’s shoulders, but then it turns into just touching him, running his hands up and down, feeling Ian’s shirt and then his skin, and then back up again. It feels . . . good. Being allowed to touch like that.

Ian’s shoulders are tense, wound up. Mickey presses against them, kneads the muscles.

“Oh,” Ian moans, and tips his head back, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Good?” Mickey asks, amused.

“Mmm,” Ian says. Eyes still closed, he rests his hands on Mickey’s hips, and then tugs him a little closer.

Mickey tips a little, and they both gasp as the movement makes Mickey’s body press up against Ian’s cock, through their clothes. Ian’s eyes fly open, and his jaw drops.

“Again,” he says softly.

Mickey, staring down at him, grinds forward a little. “Fuck,” he whispers, and can’t stop himself from doing it again. And again. _“Fuck.”_

“Wow,” Ian breathes, blinking up at him.

But after a second, Mickey stops. He’s breathing hard, and he feels . . . wild. Out of control. Gotta slow things down, at least a little. “We should . . . go to my room.”

“Why?” Ian says. “Are you tired?”

“No, uh, stuff like this, it’s. . . more comfortable on a bed. There’s more, um. Room.” Shit. He’s blushing.

“OK,” Ian says, but neither of them moves. The heat is still humming through Mickey’s whole body, and he’s not sure if it’s something crazy from Ian or just how turned on he is.

Mickey’s eyes flick down to Ian’s slightly open mouth. “Can I . . .” He swallows nervously. “Can I kiss you?”

“Sure,” Ian says immediately. His eyes are half-lidded, and he looks almost drunk. “Yeah. Do— _mmf_ —” Mickey cuts him off by pressing their mouths together.

Ian freezes for a second, confused, and Mickey pulls back, breaking the kiss.

“Sorry,” Mickey whispers. “I just—” Ian reaches up and presses his fingers to Mickey’s mouth, wonderingly. Then he touches his own, tracing everywhere that Mickey’s lips touched.

“Whoa,” he says. “Can you . . . again?”

Mickey moves slow this time, pauses right before their lips touch, feeling Ian’s breath coming in little gasps. Then he presses a soft kiss against Ian’s mouth. And another one.

Ian responds this time, opens his mouth, welcomes him inside. His hands move from Mickey’s waist to his ass, pull him in closer, tighter.

As their mouths work together, his hips start to push up against Mickey’s ass, rhythmically. His cock is hard and hot, and Mickey feels a rush of dizzy heat as he thinks about getting it inside him.

 _“Fuck,”_ he pants, breaking the kiss again. “C’mon, bedroom.”

He tries to slide off Ian’s lap, but Ian’s hands tighten on him, and Ian lets out a whimper. “Don’t stop,” he says, leaning forward, trying to capture Mickey’s mouth again.

“Hey,” Mickey says, and puts a hand on his neck. Ian pauses, looking at him. “Do you trust me or what?”

“Yeah,” Ian slurs. “But— _mmm_.” His hips buck up, and Mickey’s cock twitches.

No. They’re not gonna dry-hump on the couch when there’s a bed ten feet away.

“I promise,” Mickey says. “This is gonna be even better.”

 

Mickey doesn’t have time to feel weird about stripping in front of Ian, because he’s too fixated on watching Ian unselfconsciously drag his own T-shirt off—it makes his hair stick up in the back—and take off his jeans and boxers.

Ian looks up and sees Mickey staring at him. “What?” he says, laughing a little. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Mickey says, and finally tears his eyes away. “It’s, uh, it’s a good thing.”

“OK,” Ian says. He reaches for Mickey, and pulls him closer. Mickey stumbles a little, and has to catch himself by grabbing Ian’s shoulders again, his bare skin smooth and hot under Mickey’s fingers.

“Come on,” Ian says. “You now.” He works his hands under Mickey’s shirt, long fingers pressing against his body, leaving heat everywhere he touches.

Mickey yanks his shirt off, unzips his jeans one-handed, and with Ian’s enthusiastic help, climbs out of them and his boxers at the same time. Then, before Ian can get a good look at him and change his mind or whatever, Mickey pulls them down together onto the unmade bed.

They land with Ian on top, between Mickey’s spread legs. The amount of skin-to-skin contact completely overwhelms Ian. He groans and buries his face in the crook of Mickey’s neck, mouthing mindlessly at Mickey’s skin, his hips already working in the same restless rhythm as before.

His dick is pressed up against Mickey’s stomach, leaving a hot smear every time he moves. Every couple of thrusts, it slides against Mickey’s cock, making Ian groan, and Mickey swear.

“Hey. Hey,” Mickey says after a minute, touching the back of Ian’s head, trying to calm him down, but it doesn’t work. Anything he says, any movement, just seems to make Ian more desperate. He’s letting out little whimpers now, muffled against Mickey’s skin.

After another minute, Mickey figures it’ll be better to take the edge off, and works his hand between the two of them, wrapping it around Ian’s cock and squeezing him gently.

Ian cries out, and comes in hot pulses against Mickey’s stomach. It’s—pretty hot, seeing him lose it like that, just because Mickey touched him.

“Hey,” Mickey says again when Ian hasn’t moved after a minute, his face still pressed into Mickey’s neck. “Hey, you OK there?” He wipes off his hand, and wraps both his arms around Ian’s waist.

Ian raises his head a little, and Mickey is shocked to see that his eyes are wet. “Yeah,” he says.

“Holy—” Mickey says, and brushes the tears away. “What’s wrong?” he says.

“Nothing,” Ian breathes. “Sorry. It’s just—it feels so good.” Mickey blinks at him, and Ian smiles, and then presses a hot kiss against Mickey’s throat. “So good,” he repeats.

“Oh,” Mickey says, shaken.

“You’re still—” Ian says, gesturing down between them.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He lets go of Ian. “Yeah, I, uh, kind of get off on something else.”

“What?” Ian says, staring at him with this dopey, eager expression on his face. “Tell me.”

Mickey shuts his eyes and swallows. He can’t say it. He can’t. Whatever words he tries to put together in his head, it just sounds . . . stupid. Dirty. Weird. Hell, plenty of humans think it’s fucked up. How can he expect Ian, who doesn’t even—

“Hey,” Ian says, sounding worried. He puts his hands on either side of Mickey’s face. “Hey. OK. Don’t tell me. Just—think it, OK?”

“What?” Mickey whispers, almost paralyzed with embarrassment.

Ian presses his fingers firmly against Mickey’s skull, and kisses him, hard. “Imagine it,” he says quietly, against Mickey’s mouth.

Mickey takes a deep breath and tries to relax. Ian’s weight feels good on top of him: solid, comforting. Slowly, Mickey reaches up and wraps his arms around Ian again, hugs him close. Ian makes an encouraging noise.

His hands are still hot against Mickey’s face, but Mickey imagines him reaching down and spreading Mickey’s legs wider, pushing his knees back until his ass is open and exposed. One of Ian’s long fingers, already wet with lube, tracing around his hole gently, then pressing in. Sliding all slick and hot into Mickey’s body. Ian’s fingers opening him up, one, two, a little bit of a burning stretch. Mickey’s legs shaking with how good it feels.

Above him, he can hear Ian’s breath speeding up. His hands are sweaty now, and his cock is starting to fill again, pressed against Mickey’s stomach.

Mickey shifts a little, imagining his hole stretching around a third finger. He’d probably clench down at some point, when it got overwhelming, and Ian would have to pull him open again, tug at him where he’s so tight.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he hears Ian whisper. Ian’s cock is hard against him, so close, so close to where he wants it.

He can picture it, Ian’s huge dick nudging against his hot, slick, stretched hole. “So big,” he mutters, before he can stop himself, but fuck, he doesn’t even care anymore. For a second, it’ll just be Ian pushing hard against him, but then he’ll start to open up around it. And Ian will start to slide into him . . .

“Mickey,” Ian whines, and Mickey’s eyes flutter open, drifting out of the fantasy. Ian’s staring at him, and he looks wrecked.

“Yeah?” Mickey says, barely able to form the word. This is it. If Ian is disgusted, wants him to leave, never wants to see Mickey again—

“Is it . . . safe?” Ian asks.

Mickey’s heart pounds. “If we do it right, yeah,” he says.

Ian swallows. “Will it hurt you?” he asks, and brushes his thumb against Mickey’s cheek.

Mickey huffs out a laugh. “No. Not if we’re careful.” He looks down. “I . . . don’t mind if it hurts a little. It’s really . . .” He stops, looks Ian in the eye. “It’s really good. I like it.”

“OK,” Ian says. “Then I want it.”

“You do?” Mickey says. “It’s not too weird?”

“I want _you_ ,” Ian says. “However we do it, I want it. With you.” He bites his lip. “And that felt . . . hot.” He reaches a hand down between them, and gently rubs at Mickey’s hole with two fingers, not pushing, just touching.

And Mickey feels this . . . release, like some fucking curse has been lifted or something. He laughs a little at the feeling that floods through him. Ian stops touching him, and raises his eyebrows

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing, I’m just . . . I’m happy,” Mickey says. Ian looks pleased.

“What do you say when you’re happy because of someone?” he asks.

“Uh, I don’t know. That, I guess,” says Mickey.

“Oh.” Ian smiles. “Mickey?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m happy because of you.”

Mickey’s heart jumps, and he looks at Ian, his sticking-up hair, his bright eyes.

“I’m happy because of you, too,” he says.

“Good,” Ian says, grinning. “Also because of this.” He reaches down and rubs his thumb against the head of Mickey’s cock.

“Shit!” Mickey yelps. “Can you, uh, do that again?”

“This?” Ian says, teasing him with a few more light touches.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Fuck, c’mon.”

“Hmm, maybe,” says Ian. “Will you make us toast for breakfast?”

“What?” Mickey says, then gasps as Ian’s whole hand wraps around him. “Sure, fuck, whatever you want. Just don’t stop.”

“It’s better when you make it,” Ian explains seriously, propping himself up on one elbow so he can work Mickey’s cock from the perfect angle.

“You’ll— _f-fuck_ —you’ll get the hang of it,” Mickey pants, and kisses him hard.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Becky](http://beckyharvey29.tumblr.com/) for convincing me that it wouldn't be the worst idea to write some more of this. <3

Mickey drifts halfway between asleep and awake, as something warm and syrupy drips slowly down his stomach. Confused, he drags a clumsy hand over his skin—but there’s nothing there.

“Ian?” he says sleepily. “What’re you—”

“Shh,” Ian says, close to his ear, and Mickey relaxes.

“Mmm,” he says, and tries to drift off to sleep again.

Now that he’s looking for it, he can feel Ian’s fingers pressed up against the back of his neck, behind his ear.

The warm drips start again, running down his side and stomach.

“’M tryna sleep,” he mumbles, but he can’t quite keep the smile off his face.

“Yeah?” Ian says. Then he reaches down between Mickey’s legs, touching lightly where Mickey’s hard and aching.

“Mm-hm,” Mickey says, lacing his sleep-clumsy fingers with Ian’s and wrapping them both around him. He opens his eyes so he can look down and enjoy the image of their hands working together on his cock.

The dripping sensation on his stomach fades away slowly, replaced with a warm glow that spreads. Ian drags his lips up the back of Mickey’s neck, then plants a little kiss behind his ear.

“Can I?” he whispers, his voice hungry.

“Yeah,” Mickey breathes back, and lets his eyes drift shut again, relaxing back against Ian’s warm body, his bare skin.

Ian’s dick is hard, pressing into the small of Mickey’s back, and Mickey spreads his legs just enough to let Ian slip between them. Ian gently lets go of Mickey’s cock. It hits his stomach with a filthy little wet sound, and Mickey has to choke back a groan, half embarrassed, half aroused.

Ian presses another lingering, soft kiss to his neck and brings his hand back up to that little spot, rubs his fingers in soothing circles.

The warm glow is everywhere now, down in his stomach, between his legs, and relaxing the tense, tight muscles in his neck and shoulders

“Feel it?” Ian whispers, and Mickey nods slightly. He doesn’t want to disturb it by talking. Just lets himself sink deeper and deeper.

Ian breathes out, and slowly eases his cock back and forth between Mickey’s thighs. He’s hard. So hard, sliding against Mickey, so close to where he wants it.

Mickey lets out a moan, his hips jerking forward, and Ian reaches down to grip him again. His hand is big and warm, pressing around Mickey perfectly, surrounding him.

“’S good,” Mickey mutters. “Ian. Fuck.”

Ian hums back at him and pushes forward again, their bodies moving together. Their breath, their pulse, the blood pounding through both of them, all in the same steady beat.

There’s a white light growing behind Mickey’s eyelids. It’s something he’s noticed happening more and more when him and Ian are together like this. He thinks maybe it’s Ian’s way of showing himself to Mickey, trying to be as open to Mickey in these moments as Mickey is to him.

It’s kind of weird. But it’s nice. Mickey squeezes his eyes shut even harder, so he can see the light more clearly. Ian’s breath behind him is ragged, and his thrusts are starting to get random, desperate. Mickey moves with him, grinds back against him. Savors the feeling of Ian’s cock against his ass.

“D’you . . . d’you want to?” Ian pants out, his breath hot against Mickey’s skin. He lets go of Mickey’s dick and slides his hand down between them, touching Mickey softly, petting with a couple of fingers.

They haven’t. Not yet. Mickey wants to take their time. Do it right. It’s only been a week.

(He doesn’t want to screw this up. Not yet.)

“Nah,” he says at last. “It’s almost four. I gotta get to work. Just, uh. Keep— _fuck_ , yeah,” he gasps as Ian reaches up and starts to work him steadily again. “How are you already so good at that?”

“You’ve incentivized it for me,” Ian says, and Mickey can hear the grin in his voice.

“Damn straight,” he says.

His legs tremble as he gets close, which always makes him feel kind of girly or whatever, but it’s hard to care with Ian wrapped all around him. Ian presses his lips against that spot under Mickey’s ear one more time, and Mickey can _feel it_ when Ian starts to lose it, feels Ian’s pleasure in his own body like he’s the one who’s coming, and then he is, and the warm glow in his body is pulsing, hard and hot, all through him, through both of them at once, and the white light is burning behind his eyes . . .

“Whoa,” he says dazedly as they lie on the bed, tangled up, sweaty and shaky. Ian laughs in answer, his face still buried against Mickey’s neck. After another couple of seconds, he presses his mouth against Mickey’s shoulder in a lazy, hot kiss. Then a few more, in random spots against his back. He follows one of his kisses with a lick, experimentally.

“OK, come on, cut it out,” Mickey says with a groan, starting to roll away, but Ian tugs him back, snugging their bodies close together again. “Seriously, that’s gross, man. I’m all sweaty.”

“Like it,” Ian murmurs, his mouth open and hot on Mickey’s skin. Ian’s dick is softening, and Mickey is jonesing for a shower now (as soon as his legs will hold him again), but he’d be lying if he said it doesn’t feel good to just . . . be close like this.

Ian licks him again.

“All right, I’m not a Tootsie Pop, we’re not finding out how many licks it takes to get to the center.” Mickey rolls out of Ian’s arms and gets up, heading for the shower.

“I guess it would depend on how hard I licked,” Ian says dreamily, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling.

Mickey grabs a towel off the back of the chair in the corner, and throws it at Ian’s face. “You coming or what, Lollipop Guild?”

The best thing about Mickey’s weird hours and Ian not having a job is that they pretty much always have time for round two.

 

“So, I think I should get a job,” Ian says, taking a sip of coffee. They’re having breakfast for dinner, like they always do on nights when Mickey works.

Mickey chokes on his cereal.

“What?” he finally manages, swallowing the mouthful of cornflakes. “I mean . . . why?”

Ian blinks at him. “For money. Isn’t that why you have one?”

“I mean, yeah, but—” Mickey puts down his spoon, a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Look, Ian, I told you, you don’t have to worry about it. We’re doing OK with what I’m pulling in. There’s no reason—”

“Why are you lying?” Ian asks curiously, his eyes fixed on Mickey’s face.

“I—wha—” Mickey sputters. “I’m _not_. I—”

“You are,” Ian says calmly, and takes another sip. He watches as Mickey struggles with what to say next. “Are you worried I’ll mess it up?”

Mickey stops. His stomach is flipping at the idea of Ian—doing what? Working at a burger joint? Mopping floors somewhere? Stuck with a bunch of assholes all day who don’t understand him, who’ll expect him to do everything perfectly the first time? Which is bullshit. _No one_ does _anything_ perfectly the first time. They’ll be assholes to him for no reason at all, and Ian will think he’s done something wrong, and—

“You are,” Ian says. He looks—not hurt so much as resigned.

“No,” Mickey says, with difficulty. “It’s not that, OK? It’s . . . I . . .”

“What?” Ian says.

“Don’t want you to get hurt,” Mickey mutters, staring down into his bowl of now-soggy cereal. He jabs his spoon into the ruined mess, mushing all the flakes together. After a second, he glances up and meets Ian’s eyes.

Ian looks . . . amused?

“You laughing at me?” Mickey says.

“A little,” Ian says frankly, and Mickey drops his eyes, stung.

“Hey, no, Mickey. Don’t do that. Don’t be sad. It’s nice, OK? It’s nice that you worry about me.”

“I’m not _worrying_ ,” Mickey says crankily, half under his breath. “People are dicks, OK? They like being shitty to other people. For no reason. You shouldn’t have to put up with that.”

“You do,” Ian says. Mickey blinks.

“Yeah, but—”

“But what?” Ian says, and there’s something challenging in his eyes. “Do you think I can’t handle it?”

_You cried about the toaster last week,_ Mickey thinks. But he’s not going to say it. He doesn’t want to make Ian feel like shit for stuff he can’t help.

“What if someone . . .” He lowers his voice, even though it’s not like there’s anyone around to hear it. “What if someone, you know, figures out? What . . . who you are?”

Ian eyes him dubiously. “I don’t think people would believe me, even if I told them to their faces. You didn’t.”

“Yeah. Well,” Mickey says. “It still wouldn’t be good. They might not believe you, but they’ll think you’re nuts. Lock you up somewhere. I wouldn’t be able to stop them. I’m not your family. Shit, as far as the fucking state of Illinois is concerned, you don’t even exist. No driver’s license, no birth certificate. Ian, it’s just—it’s too fucking risky.”

He’s breathing hard, staring down at his bowl of mushed-up cereal.

Ian reaches out, touches his hand, and Mickey jerks away instinctively.

“Mickey,” Ian says, sounding hurt.

“Sorry,” Mickey says, feeling like he’s choking. “Look, I’m late, OK. I gotta go. We can—we’ll talk about it when I get home. OK? Please just—don’t—” He can’t catch his breath, can’t look Ian in the eye.

“Do anything stupid,” Ian finishes flatly. “I won’t.”

“Good,” Mickey says, dumping his bowl in the sink with a clatter, still not looking up. “I’ll—I’ll see you when I get back.”

“I’ll see you too,” Ian says dully. And Mickey doesn’t even have it in him to smile at the way Ian always tries to say the right thing, even when he doesn’t know what it means.

 

“And it’s like, it’s like he doesn’t even get it, right? That I’m just trying to look out for him.” Mickey knocks back the last of the beer in his glass and pushes it over to Clem for another. She raises an eyebrow—yeah, he’s a couple further in than he usually would be, whatever—but fills it. He takes another gulp, wipes his mouth.

“You know what else?” he says.

“Nope.” Her face suggests maybe she doesn’t want to know, either. But Mickey doesn’t give a fuck. It’s three a.m., he’s off duty, there’s only a couple more wasted stragglers on the dance floor. Who gives a shit?

What was he saying?

“What was I saying?” he asks her.

“Something about Ian,” Clem prompts, less than enthusiastically.

“Ian,” he says. “Ian thinks—he thinks he has to do this stuff, right? To make up for it? Or whatever? But he doesn’t get—he doesn’t—” Ian doesn’t get what he does for Mickey, just by sticking around. Doesn’t realize that before he showed up, Mickey wasn’t living as much as he was drifting, from apartment to apartment, job to job, anonymous fuck to anonymous fuck. Everything was pretty much the same. No reason to care.

He cares, now.

“I _care_ ,” he says to Clem.

“Yeah, I got that,” she says drily. “Look, Mickey, not every job is as high-stress as throwing people out of bars. Help him find something low-key, safe, routine. Somewhere he’ll be happy.”

“He makes me happy,” Mickey confides to the soggy napkin under his beer glass.

“All right, Romeo. Pack it in,” Clem says with an eye roll. “We’re closing up.”

“Need a hand?” he asks. He’s not avoiding going home, seeing Ian after—was that a fight? It didn’t sound like one. But it kind of felt like one. That sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

That could be the alcohol, though.

“Go puke at your own house, Mickey,” she says.

“Not that drunk,” he says mutinously, but he goes. He never was as good at cleaning messes up as he is at making them, anyway.

 

The apartment is dark, but Ian’s awake, sitting on the couch, arms wrapped around his knees.

“Hey,” Mickey says, surprised and trying to hide it. “I, uh, thought you’d be asleep.”

Ian looks at him steadily. His eyes are bright, reflecting the glow of the streetlight outside.

“I was thinking maybe you wouldn’t come back,” he said.

Mickey stops dead.

“What?” he says blankly.

“You know, since”—Ian gestures, indicating . . . what? Their fight? It wasn’t even a real fight, though, was it? Or was it? “I thought maybe. You know. This was over now.” He’s clearly trying to sound calm, but Mickey can hear an edge of tears in his voice.

“Christ, Ian,” he says, letting out a breath and dropping down onto the couch next to him.

Ian looks at him sideways, tentatively, like if he turns to face him, Mickey will somehow disappear again.

“Ian, I’d never—I’m never gonna do that to you, OK? Look, it’s . . .” He stops, runs a hand through his hair, trying to pull it together. Fuck. _Fuck._ He’s too drunk to get this right, and if he fucks it up, he’s never going to forgive himself.

“Look,” he says again. “Even if we decide—you know, someday, or whatever. That we don’t want to be, uh.” _Spit it out, you fucking pussy._ “Together.” He swallows, his stomach flipping. “Even if that happens, someday. I’m not gonna just disappear on you. OK? Never. I promise.”

Ian’s still not looking at him, his arms wrapped around his knees defensively. Mickey takes another breath, tries again. “And this wasn’t even—I mean, we’re gonna fight sometimes, all right? That’s . . . that’s normal. I guess. I mean, I’ve never done this, but. Yeah. It’s not the end of the world. OK?”

Ian swallows and turns to look at him, finally. “Kinda felt like it,” he says, and shit, his eyes are brimming. But it’s worse than usual. See Ian crying. Knowing that he caused it.

“Shit. C’mere.” Mickey reaches out and puts a hand on Ian’s hunched shoulder—and Ian’s face fucking crumples, tears spilling down his cheeks. He trembles under Mickey’s hand for a second, and then turns toward him and wraps his arms around Mickey’s waist, burying his face in Mickey’s shoulder.

“Hey, hey. It’s OK,” Mickey murmurs helplessly, meaninglessly. He rocks the two of them back and forth, some mostly forgotten instinct from having a baby sister who wouldn’t stop crying, and no one else home, and he didn’t know what to do then, and he doesn’t know what to do now.

“S-sorry,” Ian stutters out after a second, through his tears. “I—I—I just didn’t, I didn’t know if—and then you weren’t—”

“No,” Mickey says. “ _I’m_ fucking sorry.” Ian tenses up a little, and Mickey can’t stand it. “Ian, no. I’m sorry, OK? I—shit, I panicked, that’s all. It’s not a good excuse. But that’s all it was. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just. I don’t know what I’m doing here. This. Us. I don’t know how, and I’m gonna—I’m gonna fuck it up, sometimes. Maybe a lot. But it doesn’t mean I don’t—” He stops and lets out a breath, not knowing how to say it.

Ian lifts his face and makes a noise that Mickey thinks is trying to be a laugh. “I don’t know how to do any of this, either,” he says softly.

Mickey lifts a hand, and wipes away a few of Ian’s tears. “Tell you what,” he says. “At least you have an excuse. You’ve been a human for all of six months, and you’re already doing way better than I have in twenty fucking years, OK? All right? Too fucking hard on yourself, Ian.”

Ian cracks a watery smile at him. “You’re the best human I know.”

Mickey grins back wryly. “That’s because you know, like, four of us.” He looks down at Ian’s face, at the damage he’s done just by not thinking about how it would look to Ian if he didn’t show up one night.

“I think . . . ,” he says slowly, and now he’s staring at the couch, because he can’t look at Ian while he says it. “I think part of the reason I freaked like that about you getting a job is because—” He gulps. “Because I’m worried about _you_ leaving _me_. I mean, once you start getting to know other people. You’ll probably realize, you know—”

“Realize what?” Ian says, sitting up and staring at Mickey.

“That I was good enough, you know, for now. Convenient, or whatever. But maybe not—”

“Hey,” Ian says sharply. “Mickey. I don’t want you because you’re . . . some kind of . . . microwave burrito, OK?”

“A what?” Mickey says, blinking.

_“Convenient,”_ Ian says. He reaches out, cups Mickey’s face in his hands. Looks him in the eyes. It’s still dark in the apartment, but Ian’s eyes always manage to catch the light from somewhere, somehow. Mickey can’t look away. “If that’s what you think this is to me, Mick, I—” He stops, frustrated. Finally he shakes his head, dropping his hands into his lap. “I—I don’t know how to say it,” he says in a small voice. “I just—I don’t.”

Mickey laughs at little, and Ian looks up at him in surprise. “Yeah,” Mickey says, and leans forward, tipping his head against Ian’s. He smells like salt, and Mickey’s going to be kissing him in a second, which just seems kind of incredible. “I know the feeling.”

 

In the morning, they go job hunting.

“Don’t we need those vests to go hunting?” Ian asks dubiously. “The orange ones? How else are they going to know we’re looking?”

“We’ll get you one if you want,” Mickey says. “But I promise you, it ain’t gonna help.”

What Mickey really wants is to find a bunch of different job postings or whatever on Craigslist, so they can find something good, but with a busted laptop, shitty prepaid phones with barely any data, and no library cards, their options are limited. So they’re hitting up the bulletin boards at the grocery store first. Then after that, the classifieds.

Actually, while they’re here . . .

“Hey,” Mickey says, snagging a pimply-faced teenager in a green apron. “Your manager around?”

“I am the manager,” the kid says.

“Oh.” Mickey looks him up and down. How old is he, twelve? “Uh. You got any positions open? My—friend is looking for a job.”

“Part-time cashiers and baggers, sure,” the kid says, bored. “Have your _friend_ fill out an application, and we’ll let you know.”

“OK, and how do we get one of those?” Mickey asks, as patiently as he can.

“You ask me for one,” the kid says. Now he’s smirking.

Mickey grinds his teeth and opens his mouth to—

“Hi!” Ian cuts in with a smile. “Could I bother you for an application?”

The kid looks disappointed—like a weasel who didn’t get to eat the cockroach he was eyeing—but finally he rolls his eyes and leads them to a back office.

The applications are buried under a pile of old fast-food wrappers, and the piece of paper that the kid hands to Ian is definitely smeared with either pizza grease or some kind of machine oil.

“OK, thank you,” Mickey says, with an insincere smile plastered across his face.

“Wow,” Ian whispers in his ear as they leave the office, folding up the application and sticking it into his back pocket. “I can see why you’re worried. I mean, as mates go, we’ve already seen some pretty heavy competition out here, huh?”

Mickey scowls. “No more nature shows.”

Back at the front of the store, they peruse the fliers stuck to the bulletin board.

“Bunch of babysitter gigs,” Mickey says. “Don’t know if that’s a good idea, all things considered.”

Ian looks fascinated. “What happens after you sit on them?”

Mickey makes a face, flipping through the next few. The library is looking for volunteers, which would be perfect if Ian just wanted to get out of the house or be a civic-minded member of society or whatever. But volunteering isn’t going to make him feel like he’s pulling his weight on the money stuff.

After looking at a few more, Mickey shakes his head.

“Let’s walk down Division, check out the restaurants and stuff, see if there’s any help-wanted signs. Maybe bussing or washing dishes or something like that.”

“I do wash a mean dish,” Ian agrees. “Not sure about buses, but I’ll give it a shot.”

Mickey turns to look at him, catches the quirk of a smile in the corner of his mouth. “You’re just fucking with me now, huh?” he says.

Ian shrugs, makes a “Who knows?” face, but breaks out in a grin at Mickey’s flat glare.

“All right, guess we’re adding stand-up comedian to the list,” Mickey says finally.

“Only if you can’t find one sitting down.”

“Unbelievable,” Mickey mutters. “Don’t know what the fuck I did to deserve any of this.”

“I know, your luck is incredible, isn’t it?” Ian says, grabbing Mickey’s hand and squeezing.

Part of him instinctively wants to pull away, but he takes a breath, tries to relax. They’re not going get anything other than weird looks in this part of town.

And anyway, he kind of likes it. After a second, he squeezes back, and Ian grins and laces their fingers together.

Yeah. It’s not too bad.

Three of the restaurants on Division have help-wanted signs: a twenty-four-hour diner, a sports bar, and some hipster coffee place. They get applications at all three, but privately Mickey vetoes the sports bar. The hipster place might actually be OK, since Ian’s likely to be one of the less weird people in there. And, of course, no one’s going to give a shit what he does at the diner, as long as he’s not shooting up in the back.

Actually, if Ian takes a night shift, they might even have the same schedule, which would be cool. Down side, he would have to spend a bunch of time with obnoxious drunk people.

“Do you want to keep looking, or—” Mickey starts, looking up from the applications in his hand, but Ian’s not there.

He’s standing, transfixed, in front of a narrow, dark window halfway down the block. There are a few sun-faded record albums propped up inside: Elvis, The Beatles, a couple of cheesy-looking guys in suits that Mickey doesn’t recognize.

NO CDS, NO TAPES, JUST RECORDS says a sign in the dirty window, in big block letters.  
  
“What’s in there?” Ian asks.

“Uh, music,” Mickey says.

Ian turns and stares at him.

“Like at the bookstore?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Mickey says. “The stuff at the bookstore’s all digital, though. These are like—” He has moments like this about five times a day, when he realizes he knows fuck-all about anything, let alone how to explain it to Ian in a way that makes sense.

“Let’s go in and look around,” he says instead, and it’s worth it for the way Ian’s whole face lights up.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, it’s, you know . . . one of those things that makes sense when you see it.”

The door tinkles when they push their way into the dim, musty-smelling store, and the sound seems way too loud. At the back of the narrow, dark space, the guy behind the counter raises his head to look at them, confused, from behind his greasy bangs.

“We’re closed,” he says, but his voice is uncertain.

“Oh,” Mickey says. “Uh, it didn’t say. You need to put a sign up or something, man.”

The guy keeps staring at him. He has scars scattered across his cheeks, thick and shiny. They pull his mouth down into a frown, but his eyes aren’t angry. His nose is lumpy, like it’s been broken more than once.

“A sign?” he says. “A sign of what?”

Mickey stops. He turns to look at Ian— _are you getting a load of this guy?—_ but Ian’s walked over to the wall and is studying the shelves and boxes of albums. He reaches out and grabs one with a bright red cover, and slides the record out.

“These are all music?” he says, a note of excitement in his voice as he holds it up, flips it over. “How?”

“You, uh. Put ’em on a record player, and they turn, and sound comes out of the speakers,” Mickey says.

“It’s a magnetic field,” says the guy. He ducks underneath the counter and walks up to Ian, taking the record gently out of his hand. “The sound. It comes from a magnetic field.”

“Whatever,” Mickey says, embarrassed. Who the hell even knows how fucking record players work, anyway? Greasy weirdoes who work in record stores, apparently. And who the hell even runs a record store anymore?

The guy walks over to a turntable in the back corner of the room and puts the record on it. The arm slides over, and after a few seconds of silence, the music starts.

It’s . . . weird. There might be guitars, but they’re so stretched and distorted, Mickey’s not sure. There’s a woman singing softly underneath that, kind of, but it must be in another language or being played backward or something, because he has no idea what she’s saying.

Ian is transfixed, staring off into space, his mouth open.

The guy is watching Ian, his reactions. He turns to look at Mickey for a second, then goes back to studying Ian’s face. Mickey swallows a surge of annoyance. So he doesn’t want people staring at Ian. That’s not paranoia or fucking jealousy or whatever—it’s being careful.

“You can hear a lot, huh?” the guy says to Ian after another minute.

Ian’s eyes have drifted half shut, but he nods, the pleasure of the music open on his face.

The guy smiles.

 

The best thing about Ian’s job—besides the money—is that in comparison to Sam, nothing Ian says or does looks weird. And Sam hasn’t noticed anything off about Ian either, as far as they can tell.

Actually, Mickey isn’t sure Sam would notice if World War III broke out. Ian could probably show up green and with antennas on his head, and Sam would just ask if he’d ever heard Icelandic nose-flute music or something.

It’s a really good set-up, better than Mickey could have imagined. And Ian loves it there, which is the most important thing. Hell, as far as Mickey is concerned, Ian can take up _playing_ the Icelandic nose flute, if it makes him happy.

“Hey,” Mickey says softly, crawling into bed next to Ian. He murmurs sleepily and reaches out to pull Mickey closer. With Mickey still doing the bouncer gig, and Ian working afternoons at the record store, they’ve been grabbing whatever time they can get together—even if it’s at three in the morning. They can both sleep in, anyway.

Ian’s not really awake, so Mickey turns around, tugs Ian’s arm over his waist, and scoots back so they’re spooned together. Then he grins.

Well, _some_ of Ian is awake.

He shifts his hips, and Ian moans.

“Mickey?” he mumbles, nudging forward and tightening his arms.

“No, it’s Sam,” Mickey says. “Yeah, of course it’s me.”

Ian hums, nosing against Mickey’s neck and his hair, still a little damp from the shower. “I was dreaming about you,” Ian says. “And then you were here.”

(When Ian first started dreaming, it was just lights and sounds and colors. When he started seeing people, he’d come running into Mickey’s bedroom in a panic. “They were _here_!” he kept saying. Mickey thinks Ian is probably the first alien to have a human-abduction experience. He keeps that joke to himself, though.)

“Yeah?” Mickey says now, grinning. “What were we doing?”

Ian sighs and stretches, grinding against him. “That thing you showed me,” he whispers, sliding his hand slowly up and down Mickey’s side.

Mickey’s heart starts to speed up, and he wets his lips nervously. “Yeah? Which one?” he says.

Ian doesn’t say anything. Just slides his hand lower, rubs his thumb against the curve of Mickey’s ass.

“Oh. You mean. _Showed_ you,” Mickey says, distracted by Ian’s hand, and how hard and close his dick is.

“Mmm,” Ian says.

“Want to?” Mickey says. He can’t catch his breath, can’t get his heart to slow down. His pulse is beating out of control.

“Yeah,” Ian says softly. Then, all in a rush: “Fuck, Mickey, _please_ —felt so good. In my dream.”

“Feels good in real life too,” Mickey whispers, and his face burns from saying it out loud.

“Show me?” Ian says.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, half dazed, and swallows.

Sitting up, pulling away from Ian, is almost fucking impossible, but the lube is on top of his dresser on the other side of the room. He stands up, feeling chilled and ridiculous away from the warm bed and the safety of Ian’s arms. He grabs the lube as fast as he can and turns around.

Ian is spread out on top of the sheets, no shame. His hand is curled loosely around his dick, and he’s working it slowly, eyes roaming all over Mickey’s body.

Mickey takes a breath, feeling a hot surge go through him. “Fuck,” he whispers, and he throws the lube on the bed and kneels down next to it. Ian reaches out, pulling him closer, until Mickey is straddling him, and they’re kissing again, hard enough and deep enough that Mickey is dizzy with it. His dick is pushed up against Ian’s, and he can’t help thrusting forward, moaning, rocking back and then forward again. . .

They pull apart, breathing hard, and Ian leans up to steal another little kiss.

“It’s like . . . whatever we do, I want to do it twice as much,” Ian whispers against his mouth, sounding drunk. “I don’t—I can’t— _fuck_.” His hips push up once, twice, grinding against Mickey’s ass, while his hands pull Mickey down, and when their cocks slide against each other again, it’s almost too much.

“F-fuck,” Mickey stutters out. He grabs for the lube, snapping it open, squeezing it onto his shaking fingers, and reaching back to touch himself, bracing his other hand on Ian’s chest.

Before, he’s always had to get drunk, or high, or both before he could relax enough to do this. To not think about it so much that he couldn’t. But with Ian . . . there’s no room for anything else. Just them, their bodies, the heat between them.

He fucking needs it.

And Ian wants it. Wants him.

The first finger goes in slick and easy, and he pushes back on it. Slides it in and out. The second one is a stretch, a sharp little burn that lights him up everywhere, and it fucking scares him, how out of control it makes him feel.

How good it makes him feel.

He stops for a second, two fingers up his own ass, legs spread wide over Ian’s body.

Ian lets out a desperate sound, his fingers flexing against Mickey’s hips. Mickey realizes his head is tipped back, his eyes are closed. He blinks them open, and looks down at Ian.

Ian’s eyes are wide and wondering, staring at Mickey like he’s something incredible. “Don’t stop,” he says. “Don’t—”

Mickey, in a daze, slides his hand across Ian’s chest, down his arm, and takes one of his hands, draws it between his legs where he’s already slick. Ian, shaking a little, presses against his rim with a fingertip.

“Please?” Mickey whispers, and his voice is so hoarse, he almost doesn’t recognize it.

“I—it’s already so tight,” Ian says. “How—I don’t want to hurt—”

Mickey groans and slides his own fingers out, tugging Ian’s hand until two of his slip inside instead. Ian’s fingers are long, longer than his, and Mickey can’t help clenching down around them, just for a second, before he relaxes again, pushing back onto them. Ian fucks his fingers in and out a couple of times, staring.

“Mickey,” he says, breathless. “You’re hot inside.”

_“Fuck,”_ Mickey half sobs out. So fucking filthy, hearing him say it like that, all innocent. “Ian—” He lifts himself up and grabs Ian’s cock, sliding it down, so close, so close now.

Mickey lets go of Ian’s cock and tugs at his wrist, sliding Ian’s fingers out so he’s open and empty, just for a second, and then he starts to lower himself down.

He feels himself opening up around the head of Ian’s cock, and instantly, the white light flares up behind his eyes as Ian cries out.

“Mickey,” Ian says. “I—fuck, I _can’t_ , I can’t—” He’s panting hard, sounding like he’s on the verge of tears.

Mickey freezes. “You OK?” he says. “Ian. Are you—fuck, are you OK?” He remembers Ian crying the first time they touched like this, how overwhelmed he was. “Ian. Hey, talk to me—”

“Fuck, yes, God, please don’t stop, Mickey, please—” Ian says, and now he sounds even more frantic.

“You’re OK?” Mickey says anxiously, studying Ian’s face, his slack mouth, his fluttering eyelids.

Ian groans, and his hands come up to wrap around Mickey’s hips again. Then, slowly, he pushes all the way in for the first time, slow and hard and hot.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Mickey hears himself say, but all he can think is how fucking full he is, how perfectly Ian fits inside him, like they’re meant for this, only this, forever. The white light is burning behind his eyes, and he can feel echoes of Ian’s shock and pleasure in his body, in his mind.

“Again,” he says. “Ian. Do it again.”

And Ian does.

 

“There’s . . . something,” Ian says quietly. He’s curled up behind Mickey, arms around his waist. They’re both clean now, but still loose and warm, sleepy.

Mickey puts his hand on top of Ian’s, barely touching, just tracing with his fingertips. “What?” he says.

“It’s not . . . much like that,” Ian says. “I mean, there’s no bodies, not the way you have them. But it’s like, you can be—together. So much that every piece of you is mixed up. And afterward, you can never _not_ be. Like, I guess, part of you is always together.”

He brushes his lips against the back of Mickey’s neck, softly. “I was always scared of that,” he says after a second. “I didn’t want—I just wanted to be me. It seemed safer, I guess. I thought I would lose—something. I don’t know.” He hesitates.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, and presses his fingers into the spaces between Ian’s. Tangled together. “I know.”

Ian sighs, his breath warm on Mickey’s skin. “It’s good, though,” he says. He sounds half asleep, his body relaxing completely against Mickey’s.

“Yeah,” Mickey says again, and maybe he has lost something, but it’s nothing even close to what he’s gotten in return.

“Really good,” Ian whispers.

And licks the back of Mickey’s neck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mickey is NOT a Tootsie Pop, Ian!

**Author's Note:**

> So, that's . . . whatever that is. *makes vague hand gestures*
> 
> Join me on [Tumblr!](http://www.the-rat-wins.tumblr.com/)


End file.
